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Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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Chapter Four
“UP sleepy butt,” she said, yanking the covers off as she had done hundreds of times when I was going to school and wanting to sleep late.
I laughed and said, in my best whiny voice, “mommmmmmmMMMMMMMM!”
“UP!” she said again, slapping my ass hard enough to make me yelp.
“All right, all right,” I said, rolling out of bed and reaching for her but she backed away and went into the bathroom.
So I followed, yawning, and watched as she started the water in the shower running.
We showered together, making it very sensual but not quite sexual. I washed her hair and face and body and she did mine. Then I watched, fascinated, as she got ready for our date.
She used the blow dryer and a brush on her hair until she had a coppery cap, framing her oval face. She worked on it about five minutes longer than I thought necessary, but it was worth it. It looked good.
I was fascinated as she sat at her little makeup table and did her face. The makeup she applied was light but effective. The biggest change was in her eyes. They went from attractive to downright beautiful with just a hint of pale blue eye shadow and tiny points of eyeliner at the corner of her eyes. She did her lips in very red lipstick and held me away when I went to kiss her.
“Nuh-uh, buster,” she said, giggling, “you ain’t messin’ this up.”
It was almost as much fun watching her get dressed. She started with very bright yellow panties, not a thong but a high leg French cut. Then she got out a pair of what I later learned was her Rabbit Bras. She slipped a round gauze pad in and then carefully adjusted her small breasts before pressing on the “ears” of the bra, high on her chest, lifting each breast.
I realized why she was wearing that kind of bra, if it can be called a bra at all, when she stepped into a bright yellow, one-piece coverall, what I later learned was called a jumpsuit. She tightened the belt and did the zipper before slipping her arms into the suit, long sleeves ending in small loops through which she put her thumbs. She shrugged her shoulders to get things adjusted and then did the single button at the throat. That left it open from the throat to the belt, and I understood why the Rabbit Bra was the only way to dress with it.
She grinned at me as she sat and worked up some calf-high nylons and then put on her high-heeled yellow shoes, open-toed with ankle straps. What I later learned were called “fuck me” shoes.
When she stood and did a slow turn I whistled and she giggled.
She looked down, where I had come erect, and said, “I’m glad you approve.”
I just smiled, loving her look.
“Now, get dressed you pervert,” she said, and left me there. I thought she did put a lot of extra swing in her hips as she left the room.
It didn’t take me nearly as long to get ready. For me, it was boxers, one of my two pairs of slacks that weren’t jeans, one of my three Oxford cloth, button-down shirts, socks, and loafers.
When I got to the front room she dialed a number and said, simply, “come on by.”
“So where are you taking me?” I asked.
She smiled and said, “I think it should be a surprise.”
I accepted that.
It was only a couple of minutes before there was a knock on the door. Greg and Stephanie lived only a couple of blocks away.
I answered it and he grabbed me into a big bear hug. Greg was always bigger than me, big and blonde in that cornfed way suggesting a northern European heritage, and he still was. He held me at arm’s length, said “you look GREAT,” and wrapped me up again.
I laughed and said, “good to see you too.”
He finally broke the hug and stepped aside so Stephanie could come in.
She held out her arms and I accepted her embrace. It was awkward. She was hugely, immensely pregnant. Mom was right. I expected her to go into labor right then.
And she still looked good. Big and blonde, freckled, everybody’s mom next door that you lusted after when puberty struck. She had put on weight since I headed off to basic training, but it looked good on her. Her face was round, her three chins looked inviting, and her big soft arms made you want to try to pinch an inch or two. And, of course, that big belly, so utterly feminine and perfectly female just made the image perfect.
“Okay,” Greg said, his voice booming like the politician it turned out he was, “let’s get this party started. I’m STARVING!”
I wasn’t surprised at all to see that his car was a full-size Cadillac. I helped mom into the back seat and followed her while Greg got Stephanie into the passenger seat. We took off, him driving as aggressively as I remembered from our days of cruising.
“Soooo,” I said from the back seat, “whatcha been doing the past four years.”
He laughed and said, “Hey man, I am the youngest city councilman EVER. I’m gonna be President someday,” and I believed him.
I lost track of where we were, only kind of vaguely aware we were heading north out of town. We just chatted as you do, filling the time on bodrum escort a car ride. I did most of the talking, telling of basic training and tech school and then being stationed in Japan with that final few months in Alaska where I was constantly cold. They both gave me the “thank you for your service” line but I waved it away. “Just a way to get college paid for,” I said.
When Greg pulled onto a drive and after a quarter-mile or so into a parking lot with around 25 or 30 cars in it I had absolutely no idea where I was.
The building was big, cinder block, and pale grey in color with a big neon sign over the door reading “Bloodlines.”
“What is this?” I asked.
Greg grinned and hooked his arm over Stephanie’s shoulder and said, “This, old friend-o-mine, is THE place where very lucky men can show their love for their mothers without being judged.”
I looked at mom and she sort of shrugged. “It’s my first time too,” she said.
Mom and I followed Greg and Stephanie across the lot and into the building. There was a doorman. Greg flashed a card and said, “My friends, George, and I’ll need an application form.”
George the doorman smiled, handed me a sheet of paper, and said, “enjoy Bloodlines.”
Inside, the place was like every other supper club you’ve ever been in. There was a bar along the wall to the left as we entered, a stage directly ahead against the other wall, a small dance floor ahead of the stage, and about 50 tables, four-top configurations, carefully arranged to allow wait staff easy access. It was, in fact, a very standard supper club.
As we threaded our way across the room, heading for an open table a row back from the dance floor, Greg, the consummate politician, stopped at almost every one of the tables, literally slapping backs. He fed mom and me dozens of names, none of which actually stuck in my mind.
There was something I found not quite right, but it took a while for it to sink in. And suddenly it hit me. Every couple shared the same age gap. If the woman was 50-something, the man would be 30-something. If the woman was in her 40s the man would be in his 20s. If the woman was in her 30s, well, you get the picture.
I turned to mom and she was grinning sort of, okay, crazily.
“It’s all moms and sons,” she said, eyes wide, “isn’t it?”
I just nodded as we continued a slow procession.
Nancy was introduced to us, big and ridiculously good-looking, and Mark, young and thin, with one of those faces that would have you him being carded if he wanted to buy beer when he was 40.
Marie, thick and matronly, everyone’s gramma next door, with a young man named Roger. In that case, I figured that the “bloodline,” and I chuckled at my thought of the club name, had skipped a generation. I figured it was her grandson.
Tina, a name that I always thought of as belonging to someone small, was so big she was overflowing her chair. She was pretty in that way some truly fat women are with a round face and flawless skin. Her son was Charles and he was feeding her bites as regular as a metronome, and wiping her lips after each one. He was so handsome he was almost pretty, and her exact opposite in terms of body type.
And there was Leigh, 50 and carrying about three ounces of body fat, cutting up the meat and feeding a fat young man, giggling with him as she wiped his lips.
At our table I chuckled as Greg seated mom in a very courtly fashion and, not to be outdone, I did the same for Stephanie.
“Wellll,” Greg said, grinning broadly, “what do you think of our club?”
“How,” I asked, but stopped when a waitress appeared.
We ordered drinks, beer for Greg and me, a screwdriver for mom, and a Pepsi for Stephanie.
“How did you find such a place?” I asked.
“Once mom and I got together,” he said, “I started wondering if we were the only two, you know. So I started looking around. You know how it is, I had to be discrete. But I got to talking to,” and here he stopped and stood and deliberately looked around the room, “ahhhh, Brian over there, I’ll introduce you later, well, Dave, you know him. Anyway, we got to talking and it turned out mom and I were NOT the only couple in our, well, our situation.”
He stopped and took a drink from his beer, grinning.
“He introduced me to this place and, well, mom and I have been regulars since,” he finished.
I was looking around, kind of overwhelmed, when I felt mom’s hand on my shoulder.
“Come on, honey,” she said, “I see a jukebox and I’d like to dance.”
We went over and fed a five-dollar bill into the machine’s slot and started looking over the selection. It was obvious that whoever had been in charge of music had tended toward slow music, many that I would call “torch songs.” There was “Fever” by Peggy Lee, “Cry Me A River” by Julie London, Etta James “Blind Girl,” Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Bobby Darin. Smooth oldies I guess you’d say.
I selected Julie London, and Elvis Presley’s “I Can’t Help Falling bodrum escort bayan in Love,” while mom chose “Fever,” and Conway Twitty’s version of “Slow Hands.” By the time we had the money cleared out Julie London was starting to complain about the man who’s finally ready to say he loves her. Mom and I stepped off into a passable box step. We dance well together.
And we were dancing very close, our bodies touching. I thought we probably looked pretty good. I was happy when some other couples joined us.
Back at the table, I took a drink of my beer as Conway Twitty started crooning and Greg stood and walked around the table and held his hand out to mom. As they headed for the floor I smiled, stood, and offered my hand to Stephanie. She actually looked a little surprised but she stood and followed me, holding my hand all the way, to the dance floor.
She was big and soft and round, the opposite of mom, and she giggled and said, “are you glad to see me, or is that a sausage in your pocket.” I actually felt myself blushing and she giggled again, and pulled me close, an awkward position since I was bent over her belly, and said, “oh Davey, you just paid me a wonderful compliment. Thank you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that so I said nothing. But I did hold her a little tighter as the dance went on.
She felt good.
We finished the dance, cheek to cheek, and I couldn’t stop myself from wondering what she’d look like naked.
Back at the table we ate and drank. We danced some more, Greg and I trading partners regularly. We also did some serious talking.
Greg was serious about politics. “Dave,” he said, “look around you. This shit has got to stop.”
The conversation went on like that. He, basically, offered me a job once I got through school. He said I was the smartest person he knew, and he wanted me to study the shit out of economics. He said he was the guy who could get elected, but he needed someone to keep him on track with policy.
I was flattered, but I blew most of it off to bullshit.
We were enjoying the food and the music. About 8:00 a live band started up and more couples started dancing. The music wasn’t too loud, though, and we could still manage a conversation.
“Hey,” Greg said, standing, “come on,” and he stood and grabbed me.
He walked me over to another table and said, “Hey man, look who’s back in town.”
I grinned and shook Brian Fredericks’ hand. He and I had been friends back in junior high school but had drifted apart.
But it was his mom who really caught my eye. The word for her was statuesque. He introduced us, and in the process explained how introductions were done at Bloodlines. “Dave, this is my mom, Mary. Mom, you might remember Dave. He was over at the house a few times.”
When she offered a hand I bent and kissed it, feeling oddly sophisticated and silly, an interesting combination. But she evidently liked it given the way she smiled.
We exchanged the pleasantries of casual friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. You can cut a few yards of that conversation and it will fit.
Later, when we had eaten and had a few, well, looking back, probably a few too many, drinks, and mom and I were dancing, she pulled me down and said, “promise you won’t get angry?”
That struck me as funny but I said, “okay.”
“No, David,” she said, her use of my full name making it clear she was being serious, “promise me.”
I leaned back far enough to meet her eyes and said, “I promise I won’t get angry.”
“David,” she said, “I am yours. I mean that. When I gave myself to you I held nothing back and if you say ‘no,’ I will accept it. I will not try to persuade you to change your mind.”
We kept our feet moving but she put her palms on my cheeks, holding me, making me face her.
“Greg would like to share my bed tonight, and for you to share Stephanie’s,” she said.
I lost the beat again.
She giggled and took up the lead to get me moving again.
“David,” she said, “you were gone for four years and I went pretty wild. What Greg and Stephanie have is absolutely wonderful, and when she suggested sharing, that Greg was interested, I was glad, David,” a tear ran down her cheek, “and I said ‘yes.’ And I love him and I love her but, David,” and she did the palms on the cheeks thing again, “I am yours and if you say ‘no,’ then it’s ‘no.”
I didn’t say anything for a while and the music ended.
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll tell him ‘no.'”
“Wait,” I said, and when the music started up again, and for a wonder, it was something slow and sad but I didn’t recognize it.
I was thinking as we danced.
“Would it make you happy if I say ‘yes,'” I asked, and she held my eyes and nodded.
“Mom,” I said, and it was my turn to do the face in the palms thing, “I love you, and I trust you,” I took a deep breath, “so yes.”
She smiled, but it was an odd smile. There was no victory in it, but she did look happy.
I broke the escort bodrum tension by saying, “so it’s to be a mom swap tonight.”
And she giggled.
“Well,” she said through her laughter, “you don’t have to be quite so casual about it.”
“Hey,” I said, my turn to chuckle as I got into the whole idea, “have you seen her tits?”
She laughed at that.
“Maybe I should be the one to say ‘no,'” she said.
“Nuh-uh,” I said, grinning now, “I’m gettin’ me some of that.”
“David,” she said, serious again, “it is NOT just fucking that we’re proposing. It’s love too.”
I smiled and kissed her.
“I understand,” I said and then restarted, “well, I think I’m starting to understand anyway.”
She smiled and kissed me.
“Oh honey,” she said, “if you understand you’re WAY up on me. But I’m willing to see where things go.”
We danced a bit more and this time, when the music ended we went back to the table.
I seated mom, like a gentleman, flashed a grin at Greg, and offered my hand to Stephanie. She smiled and we went to the dance floor.
The band’s frontman had just started a passable rendition of “Unchained Melody” when I took her into my arms. And I liked, very much, what I felt under my hands. She was SO different from mom. I could feel warmth and padding rather than hard muscle and bone and I liked it.
“You know what mom suggested,” I said as we danced, “right?”
She sort of giggled and said, “yes.”
“And is that what you want too,” I asked, my body in that awkward posture as I bent around her belly to say the words softly into her ear.
She leaned back and put some space between us, met my eyes, and said, “oh yes.”
She smiled, a very nice smile, all white teeth, and cheek dimples, and then she kissed me.
Surprisingly, I didn’t lose the beat. It was a good kiss. A nice, lingering kiss.
As we walked back to the table Greg and mom stood up and I took that as a sign that the dinner part of the evening was over.
It was interesting, riding home, holding hands with my best friend’s mom’s hand in mine, wondering if my mom was holding his hand.
I was wondering how it would play out when he pulled up in front of his apartment, what we would call townhouses today, only a couple of blocks from my house.
“Okay,” he said, “don’t you kids do anything I wouldn’t do,” as he rolled to a stop, laid his arm over the back of mom’s seat, and looked back at us.
When neither of us moved, what you’d call a “pregnant pause” if you were writing the story, he laughed, that happy laugh that made you want to join him, and said, “I love you both, now go ahead.”
So I grinned and got out of the car, went around to the other side and opened that door, and offered Stephanie my hand.
We didn’t look back as we walked to the front door.
Inside there was a moment of awkwardness. We stood and kind of looked at each other, neither sure what to do.
She broke the ice when she held her arms out wide and said, “Alone at last.”
I chuckled and closed the distance between us and wrapped her into a bearhug, feeling her big belly and, big boobs against me. It felt good.
“Oh, Davey,” she said, a definite catch in her breath, “let’s go upstairs.”
I followed her up, watching, fascinated, as she took each step slowly, carefully, her body weighing more than it was designed to. I enjoyed the way her ass moved, very clearly, from side to side with each step.
At the top of the steps, where I had made hundreds of lefts when I spent the night with Greg when we were kids, we made a right into her room.
She turned and faced me. “Will you undress me, Davey,” she asked, a little half-smile on her face, “I like that.”
“Of course,” I said, reaching for the top button of her blouse.
“It’s been a while since a man undressed me,” she said, sounding oddly innocent.
Three buttons and I was lost. She was SO different from mom, I couldn’t look away. Her blue-veined, very pale breasts were so big and soft, I couldn’t look away. At the fourth button, it took me a minute to figure out what I was seeing before I realized she had on a nursing bra.
The phrase “sprang erect” is an understatement and if this was a cartoon four sets of eyeballs, each larger than the last, would have been coming out of my head.
She giggled and said, “I take it you approve?”
“Oh my, yes,” I said, lightly brushing the backs of my fingertips across the tops of her breasts.
I managed to get myself together and finished unbuttoning her.
The skirt had a big, no, a HUGE elastic pouch for her belly. I rolled the elastic down past her protruding belly button and let it drop, leaving her only in her bra, panties, big enough to parachute a fairly large monkey, thigh high nylons, and her moderately high heeled shoes. She was stunning.
I got to my knees, smiling up at her as I lifted her right foot, forcing her to grab my shoulders for balance, and took her shoe off and rolled the nylon down. Her foot was swollen, her toes pudgy and short, with bright polish on the nails, making me think it would be fun to do them for her.
I repeated with the other foot, inspecting it, making her squeal and giggle when I did piggies on her fat little toes. I lifted the foot, forcing her to hang on, and kissed it, sucking each toe separately.
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